The Results

(Sensitive content: terminal illness allusions)

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Our world could be turned upside down.

Lori and I sit alone on the cold, hard chairs. Uneasy, restless silence hangs between us. As we quietly shift in our places, rustling noises punctuate the heavy breathing and overwhelm the miserable patter of rain against the small windows.

My shoes squeak on the floor as I fidget. The white-walled office is spotless, aside from the scribbled papers on the desk opposite us. The aroma of hand sanitiser lingers in the air, an acrid taste of reality stinging the tongue and assaulting the nose. A single ceiling lamp vainly attempts to illuminate the space, but it only casts barren shadows around the white coat hung on the wall and accentuates the grey mist outside.

A family photograph, people living a life we might now never know, sits facing away from us next to the computer monitor. I know what it is from the frame's positioning, but I can't see their faces. Despite being the only hint of humanity in an otherwise lifeless space, it's an agonising feeling.

Looking up from my lap, I gulp and clutch the scrunched-up tissue, trying to catch Lori's eye. She's to my side but sitting further forward, her hands clasped in her lap. Her head rests on the oaken surface of the desk, dark hair flowing down towards her knees. I know she can see my gaze, but she remains motionless, staring at the floor like she's dreaming a hollow, mindless fiction.

Her headache has been getting much worse for the past few days. At least the dullness of the room offers a small measure of relief. I feel her pain and discomfort as if it's my own.

A deafening crack of rolling thunder makes us both flinch and jolt upright. For a split second, Lori's eyes widen, and she takes a sharp intake of breath. I feel my heart pounding rapidly, accelerating, and reach for her hand. Her silver wedding band is the only thing shining brightly in the gloom, a stark contrast to the dull gleam of my gold.

My hand slips into hers, doing what I can to provide gentle yet powerless comfort. Her skin is hot, clammy. The unanticipated touch makes her muscles subconsciously twitch before she relaxes and gradually folds her fingers through mine.

"Thank you, darling." Her cheeks twitch as she briefly turns to glance a pained smile at me before returning her gaze to the tiles.

All I can do is return the expression. "My pleasure."

Pfffh. Another of her outward breaths fills the air.

I instinctively glance at my watch, my foot tapping the floor. How long have we sat here in a deafening hush? Ten minutes? Two hours? I have lost track of time's passing, unsure if the minutes are passing with shell-shocked acceleration or the slow motion of terror.

Without warning, the doorknob rattles. It's quiet, but it makes me jump far more than the raging storm outside. A creaking sound echoes out as the fire door stiffly opens, and a balding, sixty-year-old man in a dress shirt enters, glasses perched on his head and smart shoes click-clacking. Swivelling, he grasps the handle, trying to slow the speed with which it closes. But it's heavy and needs oiling, and there's no stopping the inevitable crash.

He clutches a printed stack of paper in his hands. The results. These are far more frightening than the tempest outside, and I feel the weight of apprehension crushing me. I must know. But I don't want to. I can only imagine how it must be affecting my wife.

"Good afternoon, sir," nods Lori, standing up and stretching out her hand. The man shakes it. Without a word, he crosses the room and sits across from us, behind the desk. A kind, fatherly look stretches across his face, but it carries an ominous air of pity.

"Well, Lori," he begins. "We have your results back. Why don't you take a seat?"

Why doesn't she take a seat? Not the words I was hoping to hear.

"Of course."

I watch Lori reach behind her, drawing the chair up as she squats down. Her face is firm, grim, even carrying a hint of a courteous smile. But I see her hand tremble. Her legs give way, so she lands more forcefully than I expect.

I wish I could do more than offer my presence and reassurance.

The man sitting across the desk takes the glasses from where they're perched on his forehead, squinting as he loops them over his ears.

"I'll cut to the chase here, Lori," he says softly, looking down at his papers. My skin burns like fire, and my chest is about to explode as my wife and I lean forward with nervous anticipation. "I know it's been years and years of lengthy and tiresome struggle to this point. Unfortunately, some people respond better to these treatments than others." He stops for a moment. "Anyway, the results from today are a strong positive. You have six months left."

I have been hit in the head with a sledgehammer. All sound blurs to nothing but a sharp ringing. My eyes lose focus, and I'm blissfully unaware of my surroundings for a moment. Lori is suddenly sick to her stomach, retching and vomiting into the paper bag I hastily hand her.

I hold her hair and rub her back, leaning my steaming forehead on her as I weep.

A few minutes pass.

"Ah. Well, thank you for letting us know." Lori's words snap me from my stupor, and I sit up to look at her with shock written all over my face. Is that all you have to say?

The other man says nothing but continues to hold Lori's gaze. I see he is allowing her time to process his words.

"My husband and I had hoped it wouldn't ever get this far," Lori continues, a choked chuckle erupting at the end of her sentence. "That everything could have just been normal and…" Her thoughts trail off as she looks to me, silently asking me to continue speaking on her behalf.

I don't know what to say. "I mean, are you sure?" I swallow in disbelief, articulating to the man but not allowing even a blink to come between the look I share with Lori.

"We ran Lori's tests several times. The white blood cell count is, as we expected, high. The hCG numbers match up. And the scans we took this morning confirm it. It's going to be an intensely challenging road ahead but one which I know you can carefully navigate together."

Lori looks at me, her eyes boring into mine. I think I see the beginnings of a tear well up in her eye, but the dull light of the room hides it, and she blinks it away before I can tell for sure. "It's good to finally know," she stammers.

"If there's anything I can do for you, please tell me," says the man, rising to his feet and reaching for the white coat on the wall. "Otherwise, I will make the necessary contacts and arrangements for you and be in touch later this afternoon. I'll organise someone to visit you at home to make you more comfortable."

"Thank you very much, sir," replies Lori, again hauling herself to her feet and reaching out a trembling limb to shake his hand. Remembering my duty and overcoming my shock, I jump to my feet and do my best to help her up.

"Naturally," comes the gentle reply as he grips her hand back. He pauses. "Take your time to grasp this, Lori." He turns to me. "And you, John. Whatever you need, you know how to reach me."

I am in a tearful daze. All our plans, all our ambitions, hopes and dreams. Now what?

"Come on now, darling," Lori whispers, a heavy sigh bookending her words with an exhausted smile. "Let's get home."

Silently, the man wraps his coat around his shoulders and opens the heavy door for us. He observes us leave, offering us an awkward pat on the arms as we stumble through and head for the building's exit, wrapped around each other.

Halting before the sliding doors of the hospital lobby, Lori takes a deep breath and stands tall. She clutches my hand and, closing her eyes, kisses it just as she always does. I force a smile and stroke her hair. Our last months together as a couple must be worth remembering.

As we turn to leave, I hear the click-clack of running behind us. The man hurries to catch up and huddles close, passing Lori a folded card.

"This just came through. We wanted to double-check everything before showing you," the man whispers, spinning around and returning to his office. Lori opens the card and, after letting me see, presses the sonogram tight to her chest, wrapping both hands around it like she'll never let it go.

The storm has blown out. The rain has stopped. Rays of sun pierce the remaining thin clouds and splash onto the pavement. We allow ourselves to laugh as we skip through the doors and, wide-eyed and breathless, face the world. After all this time, it's finally been turned upside down.